


Keep It Kind, Keep It Good, Keep It Right

by lady_ragnell



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, And That Is Okay, Angst with a Happy Ending, Graduate School, M/M, Sometimes Friends Fight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-17
Updated: 2014-06-17
Packaged: 2018-02-05 01:44:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1800874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady_ragnell/pseuds/lady_ragnell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“You aren’t going to ask me if I’m okay?”</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>“You aren’t. Believe me, I know the signs.” Grantaire sighs, and his breath mists in the air like cigarette smoke. “They love you in there.”</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>“And out here?”</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>“You know that’s not a fair question.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keep It Kind, Keep It Good, Keep It Right

**Author's Note:**

> An expansion of [this ficlet](http://theladyragnell.tumblr.com/post/71285706478/e-r-1-or-17) on Tumblr.
> 
> The title is from Rachel Yamagata's "Elephants."

“You’re cold.”

Enjolras shakes his head, takes a deep inhale on the cigarette he’s stress-smoking. He’s only allowing himself the one, so it’s burned all the way down to singe his fingertips, the only warm part of him. “I’ll come in soon.”

The bench creaks as Grantaire sits down next to him, a few inches away so the warmth of his body radiates just close enough for Enjolras to feel the tempting edge of it. “No, you won’t. I’m sorry about how things went in there.”

“It isn’t your fault.”

“For once.” Grantaire doesn’t sound regretful about that, or upset at all. He should. Enjolras knows how he treats Grantaire, and knows he shouldn’t, and still can’t stop harsh words before they leave his mouth.

The cigarette smokes out and burns his fingers, and when he hisses and stubs it out, something drops in his lap. A few somethings, actually: his wallet, his phone, a blue knit cap he thinks he saw sticking out of Grantaire’s pocket when he arrived at Joly’s earlier. “The hat isn’t mine.”

“Your ears will fall off.”

Enjolras puts it on. There isn’t much else he can do, and it’s all the thanks he can muster right now. It’s warm and soft, and he sighs his relief when it’s on. “You aren’t going to ask me if I’m okay?”

“You aren’t. Believe me, I know the signs.” Grantaire sighs, and his breath mists in the air like cigarette smoke. “They love you in there.”

“And out here?”

“You know that’s not a fair question.”

Enjolras wants to hear him say it, without the usual tone of mockery that everyone knows is a lie masking the truth. He doesn’t reciprocate, but it can’t be so selfish just to want to hear the words. Instead, he offers honesty of his own. “It’s exhausting. I’m just as human as the rest of you, and they remember that when I need to eat and sleep, but not always at other times.” He frowns. “You’re the worst of them. I don’t know why you didn’t join in.”

“I call you Superman or Apollo or what-the-fuck-ever because I know you aren’t. Look, they’re all going to apologize. Your phone is going to start ringing in about a minute and a half, and they’ll say sorry and mean it, and maybe you should explain it to them? We aren’t mind-readers.”

"Maybe I should. But I’ll do it on my way home." He shoves his hands in his pockets. "You’re welcome to come with me."

Grantaire raises his eyebrows. “Smoking, walking out of gatherings, taking up with scoundrels? Whatever would your mother say?”

“That’s a no?”

“Contrary to popular belief, I have some instinct for self-preservation.” He stands up, and Enjolras stands to join him, to be on the same level. Grantaire sighs, facing him, and then he’s taking Enjolras’s face in his gloved hands. The wool is a little scratchy, but his face is wonderfully warm, and he doesn’t twitch away though he knows what Grantaire will do next: press a soft, cold kiss to his lips, mingling breath until he pulls away. “We all love you,” he says, just as soft, just as devastating as the kiss, and then he’s stepped away. There’s snow in his hair, because he gave Enjolras his hat.

He’s much colder, with Grantaire’s hands away from his face, with Grantaire’s body not next to his anymore. And maybe Grantaire was smart not to come home with him, because Enjolras may not love him, but he thinks they would have had sex tonight, and he’s not sure how either of them would recover after that. “Thank you,” he says. He’s not sure what he means.

Grantaire, it seems, is, because he just smiles and shakes his head. “Don’t thank people for loving you. And keep warm.”

“Thank you for the hat, then.” He would offer it back, but that just seems like an insult, in the face of everything Grantaire has done in the last five minutes. Grantaire calls himself a coward, Enjolras sometimes think of him that way, but he’s just proved them both wrong.

“Get home safe,” says Grantaire, and walks off into the snow.

Enjolras only watches after him for a few moments before drawing another cigarette out of his pack and starting the walk home.

*

He's almost to his apartment before he starts feeling petty for not answering the phone. It's been vibrating in his pocket almost since he left Grantaire behind, but another cigarette down and twenty minutes of walking haven't erased the mood he's in.

The name on the screen now is Combeferre's, and of all of them, he's the one Enjolras can forgive the least for joining in the teasing but who understands him the best. He takes a chance and picks up the phone, and stays silent until Combeferre speaks. “You're on your way home?”

“Almost there,” he agrees.

“Grantaire left almost as soon as you did.”

“He talked to me.”

“We didn't mean to hurt you,” says Combeferre, like he's ticking off a conversational list and this is the last item. “We went too far, I understand that, especially when you're already stressed. I apologize, and everyone else is more than willing to apologize.”

Enjolras turns down the last side street. He's the only one of them who lives alone, and that chafes tonight, when they mentioned it. It makes him wish he'd been able to convince Grantaire after all. “Most nights, I don't mind.”

“Clearly you do, if it built up like this.” There's a sound like a car driving by on the other end of the phone. Combeferre is walking home too, then, along the busier streets. They live near each other, but Enjolras takes the back way when he possibly can. He has the stupid, irrational urge to say _see, see, I have things in my life that I enjoy, I'm not a robot, and you all should have known that already when I care about you more than anything_. He waits for Combeferre to speak instead. “Can we fix it?”

“Of course.” Then, a little spitefully: “I care about all of you too much to stay angry long.”

“I know that.” Combeferre sounds steady and sure and it's a comfort when it shouldn't be one. “We all know that you care about us. And we care about you.”

“I know you do.” He lets himself into his building and takes a breath of the warm air in the lobby before he heads for the stairs, sliding Grantaire's hat off his head and stowing it in his pocket. He'll have to return it to him, when he knows what to say. “Most times it doesn't bother me, I know you mean it with affection,” he says while he climbs the stairs. “I just didn't want to hear it tonight.”

Combeferre is silent for a moment, considering his words. “We'll be more careful. Or we'll stop saying it. We all have spots we don't want pressed. It was inconsiderate of us not to consider that you wouldn't either.”

“Do you think I'm cruel to Grantaire?” It's hard to forget the warmth of Grantaire's hands on his face, and how gentle he was, how he was silent and thoughtful while their friends teased too much, and harder to forget how seldom Enjolras is gentle in return.

“I think tonight isn't the night to consider that question.” He must realize that Enjolras only takes it as confirmation, pausing on the stairs to fight past the wave of guilt at that, because he speaks again before Enjolras finds words. “You aren't kind. But I don't know if you're cruel. That's a question for Grantaire. Did he help you?”

“Yes.”

“I'm glad. I'll have to thank him. The rest of us weren't sure what to do.”

Enjolras makes it up to his floor and unlocks his apartment door, resting the phone between his ear and his shoulder. “He helped. More than anyone else would have, probably.” He takes the box of cigarettes out of his pocket and stows it in the top of the kitchen cabinet, where he'll look for it the next time he's too stressed.

“Again, I'm glad.” Combeferre sighs, and there's another traffic sound from his end of the phone. Enjolras must have picked up the phone as soon as Combeferre left Joly's. “I don't think you want to talk, but I'd like to meet for a walk tomorrow, or lunch, maybe.”

“I have an appointment with Lamarque in the morning, but I could probably do lunch. Text me and I'll let you know if I can make it.”

“Of course.” Combeferre pauses, weighing his words. “I love you, Enjolras,” he says, and it's rarely said between the two of them, but he's glad to hear it now.

“I'll talk to you tomorrow,” says Enjolras, and hangs up.

His apartment is quiet and he misses Grantaire, even though Grantaire has only visited a few times, tagging along at someone else's heels. He keeps his phone in his hand and thinks about calling him and knows that would be strange too, and that just because he's upset doesn't mean he has the right to ask anything of Grantaire. He opens a text instead, and types _The hat kept me warm the whole way home_ , and sends it before he can wonder if it gives too much away, and what there is to give away at all.

*

Enjolras doesn't make it to lunch with Combeferre—he would have gone, most likely, but Lamarque is talking with some undergraduates when Enjolras gets there and Enjolras agrees to wait, so his appointment ends up going long past any reasonable time for lunch.

When he leaves, he wonders whether to stay on campus, get a head start on homework since the first round of assignments will be due soon, or whether to go home and do it there, where he can turn up the heat and make tea and nurse the lingering headache that he woke up with. His decision ends up being made for him, though, when someone calls out his name almost as soon as he leaves the building where Lamarque's office is and a few seconds later Courfeyrac catches up to him.

“You aren't usually on campus on Tuesdays.”

“I had a meeting with Lamarque about PhD programs. He's still encouraging me to apply, even if it's far too late for fall semester.”

“Hey.” Courfeyrac stops, and Enjolras does him the courtesy of stopping too, and turning to face him. “I'm sorry about last night, I feel shitty about it. Can I give you a hug?”

“I'm surprised you think I care,” snaps Enjolras, and regrets it immediately, but Courfeyrac only stands there, unflinching, his hands at his side. “It was just too much last night, that's all.”

“Don't pretend there's nothing to apologize for, Enjolras, I saw your face when you were leaving.”

Enjolras looks down at the slushy sidewalk they're standing on while he tries to find an answer that's less indulgently self-pitying than most of the ones that spring to mind. “The apology is appreciated,” he finally says.

“But not accepted?”

“But not necessary,” he corrects, because he's unhappy, and there's no use denying that, but they didn't know. “I didn't draw a line until I walked out. None of you knew you were stepping over one.”

“Quibble over that all you like, I'm going to apologize anyway. Do you want a hug?”

Most of campus is in classes or otherwise inside, not enjoying the surge of February snow, but an undergraduate walking by snorts, hearing them. Enjolras sighs and holds his arms out, because he's upset and he knows Courfeyrac is as well, because Courfeyrac can't stand the thought of making his friends unhappy. A second later, Courfeyrac is holding him, strange as it feels with their bulky winter coats between them. “I'm really going to be fine,” Enjolras finally says, and pulls away.

Courfeyrac frowns at him, but he nods a second later. “You can talk to me if you need to, okay? Or if you need someone to yell at, I know you and Combeferre only do reasoned debates but yelling is fine by me.”

“I'm not going to yell at you.” He's wearing gloves, but they're the thin knit kind from the dollar store, picked up when his last pair got left at a mixer and never turned up in the lost and found, so he puts his hands in his pockets. “It's most of our last semester, tensions are running high, someone was going to get upset eventually.”

“Yes, but you've known all of us for at least a year and a half and some of us for longer than that and that's the first time you were ever the one to get upset. Which is kind of a record.”

“That's because I care about all of you and I know you're never setting out to hurt me,” he says, keeping his shoulders straight so he doesn't shrug them. He doesn't want to shrug it off like it's a joke. That will only make this worse.

“None of us ever would.” Courfeyrac is frowning, fidgeting. He might want to reach out again, but he's restraining himself. That's probably not good. Enjolras bites back a sigh and takes one hand from his pocket to put it on Courfeyrac's shoulder, and Courfeyrac looks up at him, a little surprised. “I'm not the one who needs reassuring here.”

“I think we all are,” says Enjolras, and that's better than thinking of himself as some kind of victim to his friends when he knows he's not. None of them like each other to be unhappy. “But for now I'm fine. I promise.”

“Not that I think you will, but let me know if you aren't.” Courfeyrac lifts his hand to clasp it over Enjolras's on his shoulder. “Or someone. I thought about going out after you last night, but Grantaire texted and said not to, I figured I should trust him on that.”

“He was right. I needed a little space, but I'm better today.”

“As long as you're sure.” Courfeyrac's phone starts ringing in his pocket, and he grimaces before he can answer. “Sorry, I'm running late for studying with Marius. You're more than welcome to join us.”

Enjolras shakes his head. “No, I've got other things to do, you go meet him, tell him hello. You and Combeferre and I should do lunch sometime this week, I missed one with him earlier because of how busy Lamarque was.”

Courfeyrac nods and finally drops his hand, letting Enjolras do the same. “I'll hold you to that. Take care.” He finally picks up his phone, making an apologetic face and drifting on a few steps. “Yes, Marius, sorry, I'll be there in a minute,” he says, and waves before he starts walking on properly.

Enjolras heads in the opposite direction, which leads him off campus instead of toward the library. The forecast called for snow, but there's sun peeking out between the clouds, and he stops on a park bench at the edge of campus, where people mostly only sit if they're trying to get away with something where campus security doesn't check very often. He gets a suspicious look from a passing faculty member, but he stays where he is, and gets out his phone mostly so he doesn't look like he's up to anything.

There are unanswered texts from most of his friends, though they trickle off after last night. He can only imagine the conversations they must have had with each other in between, debating the best strategy. The only often-used contact in his phone where he's the last one to have texted is Grantaire, who still hasn't responded to last night's text, not that Enjolras knows what he would say to it.

On a whim (or, more accurate, from a sense of sudden curiosity), he texts again. _I want to go for a walk._

It takes less than a minute before he gets a text in return. _Luckily for you we live in a free country and when you want to go on walks you can go on walks._ Thirty seconds later, while Enjolras is still debating how best to express his reaction to that answer, another text comes in. _Unless your friends are staking out your building to tearfully ask for forgiveness._

Enjolras thinks about giving up. He feels as though he's being dismissed, and he doesn't want to press, and he can remember Grantaire saying, in the middle of everything, something about his instinct for self-preservation. But he's not sure he wants to be alone, and he's not sure he wants to spend time with any of the others, so he tries once more. _I'm on campus and I'd like to take a walk. It would be nice if you were willing to join me._

He has to wait almost two minutes for the text, long enough that he thinks about putting his phone back in his pocket, giving up, and going home, maybe stopping for coffee on the way. _Finishing something in the art building. Come to the main door in ten mins, we can go for a walk if you promise to let me choose the route, you always take the same ones._

_It's a deal_ , Enjolras sends, and stands up to walk toward the art building, which is most of the way across campus. He should get there about when Grantaire is ready.

*

Enjolras only has to wait on the steps of the art building for a little more than a minute, but it's long enough to question exactly what he's doing, and when Grantaire comes outside, swinging the strap of his bag over his shoulder, some of his indecision must show on his face because his eyebrows go up immediately. “I can go back inside and pretend I didn't see you if you want to leave,” he says, coming down the steps.

“You have a different hat today,” says Enjolras, which is inane and stupid but all he can think of. It's lumpily knitted and gray, tugged down tight over Grantaire's ears. “Sorry, I should have thought to bring yours to return.”

Grantaire shrugs. “I have a bunch, from various sources, mostly my grandmother. She gets it in her head that my ears get cold up north here, and so pretty much every care package has something, usually hand-knitted. This one is from one of my little cousins, that's why it's—you don't care, probably.”

“I don't have anything more interesting to say.”

“Now that's just patently not true. I sat in on your lecture for Lamarque's How to Take Down the Government class three weeks ago.”

“Revolutions, Revolts, and Rebellions,” Enjolras corrects, and then blinks at him. “I didn't know you came, you should have stopped by afterward.”

Grantaire starts walking, and answers before Enjolras reacts quickly enough to catch up and see his face. “I would have been late for a studio supervision session if I'd stayed, and besides, it was the day of your great triumph and there were twenty undergraduates sighing all over you, you didn't need me telling you that three of the articles you cited were out of date.”

“They were not.” Enjolras jogs a few steps to catch up to Grantaire, almost slipping in the slush as he goes. “I checked four times on all my sources, they were all as up to date and accurate as I could manage.”

“I suppose even you can't keep updated on everything, S—Enjolras.”

Enjolras frowns, wondering whether to respond to the accusation or to Grantaire's clumsy avoidance of using one of his nicknames, like Enjolras is something fragile now. “If you find me citations, I'll get up and correct my information before the next lecture. I don't want to spread misinformation. _Credible_ citations.” Enjolras has learned not to ask how an artist always has citations on politics and social issues, because Grantaire will never answer. He should have been a librarian, for his apparent ease at it.

“You'll get an e-mail tonight, you know I live for proving you wrong.” Grantaire ducks into a passage between two buildings Enjolras hasn't had classes in since he was an undergrad and leads them toward the edge of campus and the part of town that has more shops than places to live. “There's a new store,” he says, slowing down now that they're off the main paths. “Health food and hippie stuff. Thought you might want to check it out.”

Enjolras rolls his eyes. “You think so highly of me.”

“I think we've had this discussion,” Grantaire says quietly, still walking, and it's like last night again, the too-weighty conversation, and Enjolras doesn't want to think about that now, not after running into Courfeyrac. “I've tried it a few times, and Jehan says it's great, so it's not me teasing you or anything.”

“I know.” Enjolras sighs, and he doesn't want to say it, but it needs to be said. “Thank you, for last night. It was probably good for me to talk to someone.”

“I told you last night, don't—”

“I'm not thanking you for loving me,” Enjolras says, and saying the word makes him feel like he's just gone down a drop on a roller coaster, but he forges on anyway. “I'm thanking you for being a good friend when I needed one. That's allowed, isn't it?”

“Grudgingly.” Grantaire points to the big tree (some kind of evergreen, considering it still has needles, but Enjolras isn't really good at plant identification) behind one of the dorms. “For the record, if you ever want weed, there's someone there selling it most nights, I spent a lot of my undergrad Saturday nights climbing that tree stoned out of my mind.” He grins. “Now that I'm a responsible grad student and TA I save it for my apartment.”

Enjolras takes the hint and lets Grantaire steer the conversation as they walk off campus and toward the downtown. Grantaire is a talkative walker, which Enjolras hadn't realized before: every building they pass seems to have a story, every street has a friend of Grantaire's or an apple tree that the owners never pick or some interesting architecture on it. Enjolras lets him ramble, just hums an assent or dissent once in a while when Grantaire pauses either to breathe or for a response. It's remarkably peaceful, when his time with Grantaire is usually anything but.

“Here we are,” Grantaire says eventually, making a grand gesture in front of a shopfront across the street from the hardware store where Feuilly worked all through undergrad. It's a small store, fliers for community and university events plastered all over the glass windows, and there's a little bell that goes off when he walks through the door, Grantaire at his heels.

The first thing he notices is the smell that every health food store he's ever been in has, though he's never exactly been able to identify what it is, jokes about patchouli and weed aside. It's a small place, with a few tables in the front, baked goods and coffee at the counter, and groceries behind. “It's nice,” he says, and smiles at the girl behind the counter, who frowns in return. She looks familiar, maybe someone he's seen on campus before.

“You look like you're freezing, pay for my coffee and I'll pay for your bagel.”

Enjolras almost says that he's not hungry, and then almost says that the cost will work out even and they may as well just make their own orders, but this is Grantaire being kind, and Enjolras is so rarely kind to him in return. He deserves it today. “Onion bagel, plain cream cheese.”

Grantaire snorts. “Of course you have a boring bagel order, I don't know why I'm surprised. Just the plain coffee for me, get a few packets of sugar and I'm happy. A big one.”

Enjolras turns to the girl behind the counter, who's already punching something into the register. “I heard what he wants for coffee, what do you want?”

He turns around to squint at the coffee dispensers, behind him. There's one of decaf, which he considers, but he may as well indulge. “The same, actually.” Sometimes, at actual coffeeshops with more drinks, he'll indulge himself with more sugar and flavorings, but the girl at the counter looks like she'll glare down anyone who asks for raspberry flavoring and he doesn't need it anyway.

She hands him two cups and reads off the total, smiling only briefly when he hands over some money and tells her to keep the change for the tip jar. “You can pour it out and doctor it up yourselves.”

“Thank you.” Enjolras turns around and busies himself with that, adding cream and sugar to his until it's pale enough that he knows it will make Grantaire grin and then picking up five packs of sugar so Grantaire will be able to decide on his own amount.

Grantaire is talking to the girl behind the counter, who he apparently knows, or at least has met, so Enjolras takes one of the tables. There are a few magazines and newspaper sections on it, the day's crossword half done in pen with several wrong answers Enjolras itches to correct on the top. He grabs a pen out of his bag and starts doing it as well as he can, adding some others, and he's surprised when Grantaire sits down across from him. “Thirty-eight down is probably 'oriole',” he says, and smiles when Enjolras puts it down without questioning before pushing his bagel across the table. “The most boring bagel order of all time, just for you.”

“I'm fairly sure the most boring would have been a plain bagel. What did you get?”

“Poppyseed, with cream cheese and some of their orange marmalade, they do great jams and jellies here. Jehan gave me some for my birthday.”

Enjolras frowns. “Your birthday is in June,” he says, quite sure on that, because he has everyone's birthdays in his calendar, taken from Facebook as they all turned into a cohesive group. He didn't send a card last year, doesn't have Grantaire's summer address, but he wrote on his wall, and so did many of Grantaire's ridiculous number of Facebook friends.

“No,” says Grantaire, drawing the word out, frown pulling at his mouth. “My Facebook birthday is in June, because that's during break and people don't pepper me with messages to go out and get drunk with them during the school year, I did plenty of that in undergrad and I try not to do it as much anymore. My real one was at the start of the month, did no one tell you?”

Enjolras puts down his bagel before he can even start eating it, feeling like an asshole, remembering absently turning down Courfeyrac and Joly's insistent invitations to a party at Musichetta's with confusing amounts of reference to Grantaire, and how everyone frowned at him more than usual the next time they all got together. “I'm sorry. No one did, I wish I'd known. I would have ...”

Grantaire waves a hand. “Don't feel bad about it, I didn't tell you, no one can blame you for not being able to divine that I would lie to Facebook about my birthday. And hey, you knew my fake birth month, I'll bet you could even tell me the day, that earns you some points.”

“It's the sixteenth, and no, it really doesn't. I'm sorry.” He tries a smile. “Clearly, I should have paid for your bagel as well.”

“Don't get guilty about this.” Grantaire's frown is only deepening, and his face falls too easily into the lines of it. “I don't want that.”

Enjolras makes himself take a bite of his bagel and a sip of his coffee, which is the right temperature only because of the amount of cream he put in it. “Okay,” he says when he's swallowed and Grantaire has started putting sugar in his own coffee. “I'll try not to feel guilty. Though you may find yourself with a gift on June sixteenth. I've been told I give good presents.”

“You should get me a pony,” Grantaire says, straight-faced but with the frown at last dissipating. “I could ride it to class, tether it to the bike rack during, it would be badass.”

“I don't think I can afford a horse.” This time, the smile feels real on his face. “A brightly colored plastic pony I could probably manage.”

Grantaire laughs and almost spills his coffee on the crossword. “Please tell me you're a brony. You would make my entire day, please.”

“I have little cousins I babysit in the summer, and the show is much better than its worst-behaved fans.” He lets Grantaire laugh and tease him while they eat their bagels and finish their coffee, though, Grantaire going on a long tangent about children's media, first on its messages and then on the art styles involved.

Enjolras lets him talk, more than happy to let him take the weight of the conversation. When they finish, they wander around the store a little more, Grantaire buying a few bottles of juice and Enjolras picking up some of the jams Grantaire says are best and a loaf of bread. Joly is always telling him he doesn't eat enough breakfast.

At the door, Enjolras waits to see if Grantaire mentions another destination, another route to walk, but Grantaire just shifts uncomfortably instead, pulling his hat out of his pocket and back on over his ears. “You could come back to mine, I still need to return your hat, I didn't bring it today,” Enjolras blurts, in one breath.

Grantaire stills. “I think we discussed last night why that's a bad idea. You can just bring it the next time we all get together. Meeting on Thursday, right? Bring it then. I've got to go back to campus right now, anyway, a little more work to do and my bike is parked outside the art building.”

“Of course,” says Enjolras. “Thank you for the walk, and for the bagel.”

“I'll expect that pony on June sixteenth.” Grantaire jerks his thumb back the way they came. “I go that way.”

It's a toss-up whether going around or through campus from here is faster, but Grantaire seems determined to say their goodbyes, so even if it is a little longer to go around, Enjolras decides he can do that. “And I go the other way. Thank you again.”

Grantaire laughs, and he doesn't look amused. “You've really got to stop doing that,” he says, and starts walking.

Enjolras stands where he is for a little longer before he goes in the opposite direction, shivering in the snow after the warmth of the store.

*

Jehan texts him to ask if he wants to come over for dinner, and there's a follow-up text that says _I won't make you talk about it_ that convinces Enjolras to actually say yes. Jehan lives close, and is a good cook, and knows Enjolras well enough to know when not to push. For easing back into things with his friends, he couldn't do much better.

When Enjolras gets there, Jehan greets him at the door, face serious, hair pulled back like he only does when he's cooking, and Enjolras thinks he's going to have to suffer through another question about whether he's okay, another reminder that they all care about him and didn't mean to hurt him. It would almost have been worth it to stay for more teasing if it meant they would have all forgotten about it by now.

“I made empanadas,” Jehan says instead, and he smiles when Enjolras's shoulders relax. “How's your day?”

Enjolras allows himself to deliberate while he shucks off his coat and gloves and shakes the snow out of his hair. It feels wrong to wear Grantaire's hat without his permission, and he doesn't have another one at the moment. “Awkward.”

“That makes sense. Grantaire says he saw you?”

“Yes, he took me to a health food store that apparently you like.”

Jehan smiles. “It's a nice store. I'm thinking of applying to work there this summer while I figure out what to do with an MFA. Sour cream? Salsa?”

“Both, please.” It's easy to let Jehan shepherd him into the apartment with light conversation. The apartment is a little smaller than Enjolras's, the converted second floor of someone's garage, but it's warm, draped in knit goods and space heaters in every room. Jehan doesn't host gatherings often but Enjolras is always glad to be in his place. There isn't really a table, but there's a coffee table in front of the sagging couch, set up with dishes and candles and cider, and Enjolras goes over when Jehan gestures that he should and waits in silence while Jehan dishes them out their dinner.

“I can turn something on if you want. You know I don't talk when we're watching something.”

Enjolras takes his plate when Jehan offers it. It smells delicious, and he smiles his appreciation. “Thank you, but it should be fine.”

“Let me know if you change your mind.” Jehan sits down beside him and pours them both a glass of cider. It smells like the alcoholic kind. “And I said you don't have to talk about it and you don't, but let me know if you decide you do need to talk it out.”

“I can't think of much to talk out.”

Jehan nods and doesn't press. Combeferre and Courfeyrac are probably the people Enjolras would point out as his best friends if asked, but there's something relaxing about spending time with Jehan that is present with almost no one else. “You could tell me about Grantaire,” he finally says when Enjolras has taken his first few bites of food and a sip or two of strong, sweet cider.

“I don't know what to say there, either.” Jehan doesn't answer, doesn't press. Enjolras puts his fork down to think, because he won't make this conversation into a minefield of topics he can't or won't discuss. “He helped me and I don't know what to do with that. I'm not very nice to him, in case you hadn't noticed.”

“I'm worried about him too, which is why I mentioned it.” Jehan hesitates. “No, you aren't nice,” he finally says. “Not always. But just because you haven't been doesn't mean you can't be. And maybe you were trying today?”

Enjolras considers that, and all his selfish reasons for texting Grantaire, and last night, and wishes he could nod and feel honest about it. “I can try better in the future,” he says, because he can be honest with that.

“I think that's going around.” Jehan ducks his head when Enjolras can't help how quickly he turns to look at him. “I'm not going to make you talk about it, I said, but I can't help what's on my mind, and you're going to have to talk about it eventually. Ask Grantaire where the line is. We're going to do our best to figure out where yours is.”

Bahorel's snort, and a _Maybe he'll think of we lowly folk sometimes when he's done overthrowing the government_ that Enjolras knew was a joke even if it didn't feel like one, and a few smiled agreements, someone saying _Really, when would he have the time to?_ right before he stood up. “My line is anyone implying that I don't care about my friends, that they aren't important to me.”

It's Jehan's turn to eat a few bites of his dinner to stall having to say anything, probably turning that over, applying it to the conversation last night. “That's a very reasonable line,” he finally says, carefully even, carefully calm, when Enjolras knows he'd probably like to reach out. “So you can ask Grantaire's, and you can not cross it.”

“I can do my best, anyway.” It's hard to imagine Grantaire not evading a direct question, but Enjolras can try. Should try. Wants to try.

Jehan lets him think that over, both of them finishing most of their servings before he speaks again. “Should I just talk about my chapbook?” he asks. “My adviser is trying to talk me out of the poem in Hebrew, and I'll include a translation, but it's some of my best work even if it is in another language.”

Enjolras breathes out and seizes the change of subject. “Let me get myself a second helping, you should tell me all about it.”

He catches Jehan's smile as he stands to go to the kitchen, and even when Enjolras is hurt and things are awkward, he can't think of anything in the world he loves more than his friends.

*

_I should return your hat_ , he texts Grantaire the next morning when he finishes answering questions about the upcoming test in Revolutions, Revolts, and Rebellions for students who have heard that Lamarque is a harsh grader and don't know that Enjolras tends to be the harsher one.

It's twenty minutes before he gets a text in response, long enough that he's in the union having an unusually quiet coffee with Combeferre when it comes. _Did you actually bring it, or was that rhetorical? I have sources re: our discussion yesterday, btw, expect an e-mail soon._

Combeferre raises his eyebrows when Enjolras spends a little too long looking at his phone. “Business to take care of?” he asks, after a hesitation. Combeferre doesn't hesitate.

“Grantaire.” _I have your hat. With Combeferre right now, could meet you somewhere after._ “I have something to return to him.”

“I see.” Combeferre blows on his coffee and Enjolras waits for whatever comes next. “I'm the person appointed to figure out if we're still meeting in the conference room tomorrow evening to talk about budgetary lobbying or if you'd rather put it off another week.”

Enjolras hates this, wants it to be over, wants nobody tiptoeing around anyone else. “We're still meeting,” he says, as firmly as he can, and hopes he doesn't sound angry or reluctant. “If we put things off, avoid them, nothing will get back to normal, and I want things to get back to normal. I won't lose my friends because they went a little too far one time.”

“I'm glad.” After a beat, Combeferre relaxes just enough to let Enjolras know how tense he was. “We'll meet, but at some point I think everyone would appreciate some reassurance on that front, and a chance to apologize, even if you insist that no apology is necessary, and a chance to figure out how to make sure this doesn't happen again.”

“I told Jehan the last part last night, I can tell you too—I just don't like it when my friends imply, even if they're joking or teasing, that I don't care about them.”

“Okay.” Combeferre nods, filing it away, something to be kept in mind the same way they all pay attention to Bossuet's peanut allergy and Jehan's dislike of anyone coming up behind him and avoiding discussion of Cosette's family history. It's easier to swallow, contextualized like that. “We'll make sure it doesn't happen again.”

Enjolras's phone buzzes against the table, startling them both, and he glances at it, not surprised when it's a text from Grantaire. _In the studio all day working on my final exhibition. You can stop by if you want._ “Thank you,” he says belatedly to Combeferre, when the silence starts feeling pointed. “Sorry. Grantaire lent me a hat the other night, I want to give it back.”

“Makes sense.” Combeferre changes the subject, then, to preliminary business for their meeting, about TA salaries and how to take the wind out of the sails of the people lobbying for more football and less academics. They fall into their usual pattern of back-and-forth quickly enough, Combeferre jotting down notes to share with Courfeyrac when he's out of his meeting with his adviser and to e-mail to everyone before their meeting so they know what they'll be talking about.

Combeferre is the one to check his phone first, frowning when he sees the time. “Class to attend?” Enjolras asks, when Combeferre doesn't immediately make excuses.

“Éponine is giving a presentation in one of her classes, I thought I would stop in.”

“Go ahead, then, don't let me keep you. Give her my best.” Enjolras looks down at his phone, the screen still on Grantaire's text when he unlocks it. It's close to lunch time, and the art building isn't near anywhere that sells food. “Do you know what Grantaire would pick for lunch?”

Combeferre blinks at him, surprised. “Not sure. I think he's mostly vegetarian even if he's quiet about it, so probably you shouldn't chance meat. Are you bringing him lunch?”

“He's stuck in the art building, and if I'm going to talk to him I might as well bring him something to eat at the same time, and some coffee.”

“You aren't going to ask me his coffee order?”

“Don't need to,” says Enjolras, and he knows how telling that is from the way Combeferre's eyebrows go up and then how he squints, reassessing. “I'll see you for the meeting tomorrow,” he adds, standing up. He doesn't need to scrutinize the fact that this is the second time in two days he's sat and had a meal with Grantaire.

Combeferre claps him on the shoulder. “I can get word out to the others about exactly what went wrong the other night, if you like. I get the impression you'd rather not discuss it in detail.”

Enjolras gives him a one-armed hug. “That would be appreciated, thank you.”

Combeferre nods and releases him, both of them taking the opportunities to pick up their bags and their mostly-empty coffee cups. “See you tomorrow, then,” he says, and smiles when Enjolras waves him off.

Enjolras buys wraps for he and Grantaire, one with chicken and one without, so Grantaire can choose, and picks up a juice for himself since he's already passed his daily caffeine quota and a coffee for Grantaire, who probably needs it after a morning in the studio.

Campus has mostly been cleared of the slush from Monday and Tuesday morning's snow, but it's settled into one last bitter cold spell before it starts turning slowly toward spring, and Enjolras doesn't really enjoy his walk across campus to the art building. By the time he gets there, he's shivering and wishing he hadn't left Grantaire's hat in his bag, and his fingers are freezing when he takes off his glove to text Grantaire that he's outside the building with lunch.

It's only a minute before Grantaire appears at the door, long enough for Enjolras to get his glove back on and start hoping that the coffee won't be completely cold by the time Grantaire starts drinking it. Grantaire is smeared with a streak of something terracotta brown, clay or paint, his hair messy and dusty, and he blinks at Enjolras like he doesn't recognize him for a second when he opens the door and Enjolras comes in. “I don't recall ordering delivery,” he says after a moment's silence where Enjolras doesn't know how to begin explaining his presence.

“You said you were stuck here all day, if I was stopping by I figured I should bring food. And coffee, though that's probably fairly cold by now.”

“Okay,” Grantaire says, very slowly, and finally steps out of the way to let Enjolras in, wincing when he looks at him. “Fuck, you look like you've got frostbite, come on upstairs, the studios are always fucking roasting, it's the kiln.”

Enjolras follows. The staircase is narrow, just barely wide enough to meet building codes, and Grantaire takes him up three floors before he opens a door and starts walking them down a hall full of doors. “I didn't mean to interrupt,” he says belatedly, and knows it sounds like a lie because he let Grantaire take him up three sets of stairs before he said it. “I could have just left lunch and your hat.”

Grantaire shrugs, still leading him down the hall. “I could use the break, and we won't be interrupting anyone, the great thing about the art building being a depressing old dorm is that the grad students get their own miniature studios.”

Enjolras takes him at his word, and it's only a few doors after that before they reach the one Grantaire has a key to, letting them both in. Sure enough, it's small and warm enough that it stings, two chairs and a desk in one corner, sketches and multimedia pieces pinned up on the walls, a few easels with paintings on them leaned over near the window. The color on Grantaire must be paint after all, though Enjolras knows he works with clay sometimes. “Working on your exhibition?” he asks, even though that's the answer Grantaire has been giving everyone, increasingly terse, since they came back from break.

“When the inspiration strikes,” Grantaire says instead. “What did you bring?”

“Wraps. One with chicken, one with no meat, Combeferre thought you're a vegetarian but wasn't sure so I figured I would eat whichever one you don't want.”

“Thanks to you and Combeferre, then.” Grantaire is fidgeting around his studio, straightening a sketch, frowning at something that seems to be some kind of textile collage. There are a few pictures of the kind Enjolras is most familiar with, the little cartoons Grantaire doodles when he's bored or not paying attention, but those probably aren't the serious kinds of things he wants to do for his degree exhibition. “I mostly don't eat meat, got out of the habit when I was living with Joly and Musichetta last year, but I could use some protein today.”

Enjolras hands over the coffee and rummages in his bag for the wraps, handing over the right one. They're both chilly, but that's why he got cold food. At least it's less noticeable than if he'd chosen pizza. It's hot enough that he wants to be out of his jacket and gloves, and he takes the gloves off, testing to see if Grantaire is expecting him to leave right away, but he only gets a smile while Grantaire relieves him of the food and a gesture over toward the chairs. “I'll have the veggie, then, I have fish at home for supper.”

Grantaire's desk is mostly clear, other than his laptop, currently shut, and a stack of papers, face-down, so Enjolras settles down next to it and sets his food and juice out while Grantaire does the same, fidgeting with the paper on the wrap. “I'm confused,” Grantaire says at length, when neither of them makes a move to do anything.

“I wanted to talk to you,” Enjolras says, because he knows what question Grantaire isn't asking. “I wanted to … Jehan said I should ask you where your line is.”

Grantaire's eyebrow goes up. “You're going to have to backtrack a little for me to be able answer that question. Because, I mean, the line of people waiting to punch me? The line of adoring fans waiting for my signature? That's a lot shorter. My lunch line? You took care of that one for me.”

“I want to spend time with you.” That effectively silences Grantaire. “I want to be a better friend to you than I've been, but we both know you have feelings for me, and I don't want to push you too far. I've done it by accident more than a few times in the past few days, and I want to be able not to.”

After a second, Grantaire breathes out, and when he reaches for his coffee cup his hand is shaking a little, though it steadies once he has the weight in his hand. He takes a sip, makes a face, puts it down. “I don't know where the line is.” He shakes his head when Enjolras opens his mouth. “I really don't, I'm not brushing it off or anything. I guess … nothing that makes me think you're in love with me. And believe me, I know how vague that is.”

Enjolras takes a few bites of his wrap, which is cold enough that it feels like it was left in a freezer for a few minutes, if not ice cold, and tries to think that through. “You seem uncomfortable when I ask you to come home with me,” he offers. “Monday night, I agree, that would have ended in something irrevocable, but yesterday. You wouldn't then, either.”

“I probably could get there eventually. It's just a big change, and big changes don't feel like just getting to be friends with you, they feel like gestures, and I know they aren't.” Grantaire takes another long drink of his coffee, even though his initial reaction proved just how appealing it must taste. “Why do you want to be friends with me?”

Terrible, selfish reasons, which is why he's trying to give back, but he doesn't know if he can say that. “Because you're kind to me in between arguing with me and I'm not really to you, and you shouldn't have to put up with that just because there's a … mismatch in the way we view each other,” he says, which in the end is just as honest as shrugging and saying that Grantaire was his only port in a storm the other night and he wants something to hold on to.

“I would say I don't want pity but we both know that's probably not true.” Grantaire sighs and puts the coffee down in favor of the wrap. “It's going to be weird,” he says around a bite. “And I'll probably tell you you're out of line at times that make no sense. And I still don't know how worth it this is going to end up being for you.”

“I don't think friendships have to be _worth_ something to be valuable,” Enjolras snaps, and then shakes his head. “Sorry. I don't think you meant it that way.”

“I should rephrase, that's a sore spot this week.” Grantaire sips his coffee again. Enjolras should have bought it iced, then it would have at least tasted like it was supposed to. “I mean it's hard to be friends with someone who's in—who has feelings for you. It's hard to _make_ friends with someone who has feelings for you.”

“I want to try unless you think it will be too hard on you.” He wants to try anyway, but he'll respect Grantaire's boundaries if Grantaire sets them out.

“Self-preservation,” Grantaire says quietly, more to himself than to Enjolras, and then he shakes it off, straightening up and smiling. “So we've got a meeting tomorrow, right? About the budget shit?”

“The budget shit,” Enjolras says, more dry than annoyed, because by now he knows that Grantaire can quote half the budget off the top of his head so it isn't as though he's not paying attention. It's obvious he doesn't want to talk about anything more personal, so he lets the subject turn, as awkward a segue as it is. “What's your argument this time? That football really does bring revenue to the school despite the fact that it demonstrably doesn't?”

Grantaire grins, relaxing further and taking another few bites of his wrap. “I think this time I'll go with the slow death of the public education system and see if I can piss you off by announcing that you should get your PhD at an Ivy.”

“I'll be sure to come up with some arguments to the contrary,” says Enjolras, and settles into the conversation.

*

Enjolras is early to the meeting the next day, only Feuilly and Jehan there before him. He hasn't seen Feuilly since Monday, but he must have spoken to Jehan or Grantaire or Combeferre, because he doesn't mention anything, just kicks out the chair next to him and continues his debate with Jehan about whether machines can truly create art.

It's nice, letting the conversation go on next to him while he gets his papers in order, being back around his friends without his jaw locking with tension. When Joly and Bossuet spill through the door, they pause for a second at the sight of him, but when Enjolras makes a deliberate effort to smile, they do it in return, mirroring grins, and then Joly hears the word “robot” and is immediately involved in the conversation.

Bossuet sits down slower, across the table from Enjolras, and kicks him in the ankle a few seconds letter. Enjolras looks up at him. “We're okay?” Bossuet says, quiet enough that the others can pretend not to hear him.

Enjolras nods. “We're fine.” He doesn't have any illusions that things are going to be exactly the same, at least for a little while, but he knows they can work through it, anyway.

Everyone else starts trickling in before Enjolras has to find more to say than that, Grantaire with Musichetta and Éponine, stopping mid-gesture to give Enjolras a nod before he turns back to his conversation, Courfeyrac, Combeferre, and Cosette all together, and finally Marius stumbling in on Bahorel's heels, looking alarmed while Bahorel laughs about something. There's a brief silence after everyone finds their seats, a moment where everyone acknowledges that the last time they were all together (or almost all, Éponine was working that night) Enjolras walked out and wonders if they'll have to say anything about it.

“Later,” he finally says, and it's the right thing to say, because all of them relax at once. “We need to talk about the budget, at least fight against the president and the provost getting a raise when they're thinking about cutting and combining undergraduate majors.”

The conversation falls into familiar patterns from there. Feuilly and Éponine talk about getting word out to the undergraduates, Combeferre promising to help them with signage, Bahorel and Musichetta and Courfeyrac all for a protest, the others arguing their usual sides. Grantaire remains silent, which is also usual until something pushes him a little too far and he feels the need to expound about something, but Enjolras glances over at him more than usual, checking. Grantaire isn't always looking back, but he often is.

“Okay, no,” Grantaire finally says, when Enjolras puts forth the idea of an open house for the undergraduates to ask questions of the administration about the programs being cut. “You can guilt the administration into doing the event, but undergraduates? Come on, you may be a lofty grad student, but you remember undergrad, right? They don't care about shit but beer and free pizza.”

Everyone goes silent at that, and it takes Enjolras a second to realize that Grantaire is the only one who's pushed back this whole meeting, let alone skirt anywhere close to the discussion that made him leave on Monday. Enjolras sighs and raises his eyebrows at Grantaire, because the only way to get through it is to answer himself, to push until they remember he isn't fragile. “So we petition the student government to use some of its event funding to get pizza for the undergraduates,” he says.

“Wait, what?” says Grantaire, and then shakes his head. “That's actually … not a terrible idea. I mean, I don't think the administration will actually _listen_ , but hey, the show of numbers pizza would bring in should at least earn a headline in the school paper.”

“I'll call the local press,” says Jehan. “No need for it to just be the school paper.”

“Azelma knows a girl on the programming committee in student government, I'll get her to talk about the pizza thing and getting event space,” says Éponine, smiling briefly at Enjolras.

“And I'll talk to Reslife, see about getting the RAs in the freshman dorms especially to get their students involved.” Combeferre shuffles his papers into a stack. “Any other suggestions to pass on? Or is that enough of a project for right now?”

“We're all busy this semester,” says Enjolras, and more than a few of them look surprised. “I know we want to make our mark on the university, and I do too, but it's the last semester for many of us and I know we have work to do. As far as I'm concerned this is enough for the moment. We'll see how it goes over.”

That seems to be a cue for the meeting to fragment into little conversations about plans and trying to leave things in the hands of student government so they can concentrate on their usual well-cited deconstruction of the budget and what should change about it. Enjolras sits and listens to the talk as it gets increasingly less productive until Feuilly gently touches his arm. He's frowning when Enjolras turns to look at him. “You don't have to go easy on us to prove that you're human,” he says, low enough that no one will hear him unless they're really trying to eavesdrop.

“You think that planning an event is going easy?” Enjolras shakes his head and shuts the binder he keeps budget papers in. “I would have said this regardless, I promise. I don't think I have anything to prove.”

“Do you think that we have something to prove?”

Enjolras leans back in his chair, trying to deliberately relax his shoulders instead of letting them go tight. “I don't. I know it was teasing. It was just teasing I couldn't handle.”

“It was teasing we shouldn't have done.” Feuilly squeezes his arm gently. “No one who's ever met you could doubt that you care about us, okay?” Enjolras doesn't know what his expression looks like, but Feuilly lets him go a second later. “And now I'm going to stop pushing.”

“You aren't pushing. And thank you.”

Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta are the first ones out the door, apologetic and explaining that Joly's sister is in town and they need to make it home to make dinner. Musichetta ruffles Enjolras's hair on the way out and he starts, then smiles at her when she smiles first. They start a slow trickle of people out the door—Bahorel to the capoeira club, Feuilly to work, Éponine to meet her sister and brother for dinner, Combeferre to a seminar. It feels natural, almost normal, and Enjolras is relieved when he packs up after Combeferre leaves, without an excuse to go but without a conversation to keep him there either.

He can't say he's expecting Grantaire to catch up to him before he makes it out of the building, but he can't say he's surprised either, and he pauses at the door to put on his gloves and button his coat tight while Grantaire takes a hat out of his pocket. It's the blue one he lent to Enjolras, and Enjolras doesn't know if it means anything other than that it's Grantaire's favorite. “What was that?” Grantaire asks when Enjolras finally pushes the door open.

“Did I cross a line?” What line could he have crossed? Looking at Grantaire? Acknowledging him?

“No, but you took my needling as a suggestion and thought that it was a good idea, I've got to say, that's a first. Sometimes I get Bossuet to share my ideas for me because you think I'm mocking you when I try to make them on my own.”

“Maybe because half the time when you open your mouth in meetings you are mocking me,” Enjolras says, frowning as he thinks it over. “Sorry. I don't mean to ignore you just because sometimes you can be difficult. Your ideas are valuable and valid. And you were right about the pizza. That's why I took it as a suggestion.”

“Nothing about this week makes sense,” says Grantaire, not to him, and then points at a side path. “That's the way to the art building and I want to talk to Le Gros before his office hours are over. I'll catch you soon, okay? We didn't have lunch today. I'm languishing.”

“We can meet between Lamarque's class and my afternoon seminar tomorrow if you like,” Enjolras offers.

Grantaire stares at him for a second. “ _Nothing_ makes sense,” he says again, and then, “I'll text you about it, we'll see what we can do. And I still owe you an e-mail about those citations, I'll get that to you tonight, it's all collected, I just need to put it in order.”

He touches Enjolras's arm briefly before he turns away, barely noticeable through the layers Enjolras is wearing, and then he walks away, leaving Enjolras wishing for a cigarette and wishing he didn't know what it means that he wants to go after him.

*

_Are you free for lunch?_ Enjolras stares at the text, received sometime while he was in class, standing up and offering alternate sources from Grantaire to the students. It's from Courfeyrac, and normally he would say yes. Even this week, after slow attempts back to normal, he would say yes.

But there's a text from Grantaire too, one that says _Is noon okay? Running late_.

Enjolras stares at his phone long enough that one of his students almost bumps into him as she leaves the lecture hall a little late, yawning like she maybe fell asleep during the lecture. He's used to eating lunch with a hodgepodge of his friends, whoever is free and happens to text on time. Sometimes Grantaire is even involved. It still feels like he should text Courfeyrac and tell him no, he isn't free, they can meet up over the weekend instead.

He texts Grantaire instead. _Courfeyrac asked me about lunch. Do you mind if he joins us?_

It only takes a minute for him to get _It's fine with me_ back, and he texts Courfeyrac to tell him to meet at noon in the Union and that Grantaire is coming, and he's pretty sure the latter piece of news is what keeps him from confirming for a full five minutes when Courfeyrac is usually attached to his phone constantly when he isn't in class.

Enjolras goes to the Union early, since it's almost eleven and he can get some studying done before anyone joins him for lunch, and he's surprised almost an hour later when a bag lands across the table from him and Courfeyrac is attached to it. “Saw you in here and thought I'd come over and say hello,” says Courfeyrac when Enjolras looks up, looking nervous for half a second before he covers it up with a smile.

“We're eating lunch together, you can do more than say hello, you can sit down.” He shuts his book and stows it in his bag while Courfeyrac gets settled next to him. “You aren't usually around Friday mornings, are you?”

“I'm not, but I had a meeting for the events committee, they want to do one more grad mixer before the end of the year and I'm trying to convince them that at this point in the year it's probably not technically called a mixer.”

“I'm not going,” Enjolras says preemptively, because that's always a good starting point for negotiations with Courfeyrac. It usually means that he doesn't get roped into cooking appetizers and doesn't have to decorate.

Instead of arguing, though, or telling Enjolras that he's got nothing else to do because all his friends will be going so at least he can put on a tie and prop up a wall, Courfeyrac just looks at the table. “If you don't want to, you don't have to.”

Enjolras reaches across the table and touches Courfeyrac's arm. “I don't feel pressured, you know that, right? This is the same thing we do every time.”

Courfeyrac breathes out and shakes his head a second later. “You're right, we do. Sorry, natural instinct is just to overthink everything, but that's probably only going to make it worse. So, okay, yes you are going, I need someone to help me serve punch.”

Enjolras hopes his relief doesn't show on his face. “Serve punch, really? You think that will end in anything but me getting someone's clothes stained when I get impatient? Besides, maybe I'm busy that night.”

“He has to wash his hair, and check his e-mail,” Grantaire says from behind him. He's smiling when Enjolras twists around, carrying a bag that must mean he's done for the day or just coming in for the day. Enjolras doesn't know his Friday schedule. “Are you throwing more parties?”

“Always,” Courfeyrac says with a sweeping gesture that seems more like him than the tiptoeing around he's been doing, and Enjolras finds himself thankful for Grantaire yet again, wonders if he just didn't notice all the reasons to be before this week. “Have a seat, I'll convince you to make banners for it.”

“Filling in bubble letters is not art,” says Grantaire, and sits down, dropping his bag on the floor. It makes an ominous _clank_ that could be books or art supplies or the flask he sometimes carries on bad weeks, though Enjolras hopes it isn't that last. “You can get some of your undergraduate minions to do that.”

“Excuse you, I do not have minions,” Courfeyrac says with a sniff, but he's smiling, relaxing, and Enjolras relaxes in turn, catching a smile from Grantaire out of the corner of his eye, which means he must be doing it on purpose. “So, who wants to hold the table and who wants to get lunch?”

“I'll get the food,” Enjolras offers, already halfway to his feet. “What do you want?”

“Pizza,” says Grantaire, settling into his chair and smiling at Enjolras. “If they've got mushroom, that would be good, but whatever except pepperoni otherwise.”

Courfeyrac bites his lip, waffling either on coming with him or on what he wants. “Wheat pasta and marinara sauce,” he finally says. “And I'll owe you lunch next week sometime.”

Enjolras grabs his wallet out of his coat pocket and goes to fill up a tray with food for all of them, a few extra sides to round things out. The woman scanning cards rolls her eyes when she sees how much he has, but she lets him through anyway, and it's less than ten minutes all told by the time he makes it back to the table.

Courfeyrac is leaning forward when he gets there, talking to Grantaire, and Grantaire is sitting straight and stiff in his chair, uncomfortable with the conversation. They don't jump when they see Enjolras, but they don't continue what they were talking about either. “Food and sides for everyone,” he says, instead of asking what they were saying about him. “And water. If you want a different beverage or dessert, you can get it yourselves.”

“Seems fair,” says Courfeyrac, getting his pasta and a bag of chips off the tray when Grantaire swats his hand away from the fries.

Enjolras takes another bag of chips and the salad he made himself, even though the lettuce was fairly wilted in the salad bar. “Tell me about the mixer,” he says when the silence stretches out a few seconds too long.

Courfeyrac smiles, mouth already full of chips. “First of all,” he says, garbled around his mouthful, “I refuse to call it a mixer, and I feel like if I tell you about it too much you're going to use it as an excuse not to come.”

He talks about it, though, and by the time he's finished most of the awkwardness has gone away, and Enjolras takes over, talking about his class and how yes, Grantaire, he really did get up in front of everyone and offer alternate sources that contradicted his arguments (getting a surprised look from Courfeyrac and a confused one from Grantaire). After that, Grantaire complains about one of the other grad students in his apartment, who seems to be taking a turn for the insufferably pretentious.

Lunch passes easily, more easily than Enjolras thinks it would have if it were just he and Courfeyrac. Grantaire and Courfeyrac talk more than he does, but he's used to that, and it's a relief, the closest to normal he's felt all week even if eating this many meals with Grantaire really isn't normal at all. Or hasn't been. He wants it to start becoming more normal.

Courfeyrac ends up excusing himself first, with an excuse that feels flimsy even though Enjolras knows he really does have a study group on Friday afternoons.

Grantaire is the one to speak up once Courfeyrac has collected their trash and left with a wave and a promise to talk them both into coming to the not-mixer. “Things okay?”

“Getting there. It's just time at this point, I don't need any more apologies from anyone.”

“Joly and Bossuet were thinking about choreographing a dance number and having a 'forgive-us' flash mob here some time.”

Grantaire's face is straight enough and Joly and Bossuet are apt enough to do things like that that Enjolras decides not to ask if Grantaire is serious or not. “I really hope they don't,” he says instead, and knows that the news will get back to Joly and Bossuet if it really is something they were planning.

“Me either.” Grantaire grins. “Bossuet's got no rhythm, and there were going to be canes and Gene Kelly steps and I refuse to tapdance in public.”

“You tapdance?”

“I dabble. I watched a lot of Fred Astaire with my grandmother at a formative age.” He looks down at his phone. “You have a seminar, right? Should I be kicking you out?”

“Not till three, I have some time to kill if you do.”

“Yeah, I was in the studio starting at five this morning trying to avoid fucking Montparnasse, because I cannot be around him until his word of the week stops being 'performativity.'” He wrinkles his nose. “But seriously, who schedules seminars for Friday afternoons? That's cruel.”

Enjolras shrugs. “It's an interesting class, and only people who are really interested are taking it because of the Friday afternoon issue, so I don't mind much.”

Grantaire taps his fingers on the table a few times. “Any exciting plans for the weekend, then? Movies? Wild partying? Writing articles?”

“Dissertation work.” Enjolras clears his throat, and Grantaire looks sharply at him, stilling all at once. “Unless you have any alternate suggestions. I'm ahead.”

“Of course you're ahead on your dissertation, exactly zero grad students ever have been ahead on their dissertations.” Grantaire pauses. “Maybe Combeferre. But the two of you are the only ones.”

“Combeferre is arguing with his adviser about the inclusion of several sources.”

Grantaire snorts. “Okay, I probably should have guessed that.”

Enjolras waits for him to continue, and ventures to speak again when he doesn't. “Did you have something you wanted to suggest? I don't want to pressure you, of course, but I wondered if that was why you're asking.”

“I didn't,” Grantaire says slowly, but it doesn't sound like a no, a boundary, anything that should make Enjolras back off. “But I could, I guess. The owner of the little knick-knack store, you know, the one you can hardly turn around in with all the glass ornaments?” Enjolras hopes his blank look is clear enough that he doesn't know the one, and judging by the way Grantaire sighs, it's true. “Whatever, the owner is German and she brings back all sorts of food whenever she comes back from a trip, and sources say she just got back a few days ago, so I thought I would go buy lots of packaged cakes to see me through the semester. Want to join?”

“Sure,” Enjolras says, though he doesn't really have any particular opinions on German cakes, packaged or fresh. “When?”

“Tomorrow afternoon? I can meet you at the health food place around one, it's not too long a walk from there.”

“It's ...” _It's a date_ , he doesn't say, and he knows Grantaire hears the unspoken words even when he corrects himself a second later. “I'll be there.”

“I'll be there too,” says Grantaire, and maybe he's not saying it too, but Enjolras doesn't know how to ask, if he should, if he can. “But for now I think I'm going to head back to my place, get some e-mails sent and stuff where there are less distractions. You going to be able to keep yourself occupied until your seminar?”

“I do most Fridays.” He stands when Grantaire does. “Thank you for lunch.”

Grantaire raises his eyebrows. “I think that's my line. I owe you a lunch, remind me of that.”

Enjolras nods. “I will.”

*

Saturday is cold and snowy again, and Enjolras eats an early lunch in his apartment, rice cakes and peanut butter because he hasn't been shopping all week, and stops in a shop on the way to buy a hat, blue fleece nowhere near as comfortable as the one Grantaire lent him.

Grantaire is waiting outside the health food store when he gets there three minutes early, hands cupped around a travel mug, presumably of coffee, which Enjolras envies him. He tries not to let himself get back into the caffeine addiction of his undergraduate years, but at this time of year it's a temptation if only for the warmth. “You can go inside and get some,” Grantaire says first thing, probably noticing Enjolras's longing look.

“I'm fine.” He puts his hands in his pockets and waits for Grantaire to start walking, falls into step next to him. “How was your Friday night?”

“Bossuet and Musichetta got Joly really drunk and then he sat in my lap and told me all about the Black Plague and I'm never going to sleep again.” He's grinning, so Enjolras doesn't believe him for a second. “And dinner is at Feuilly's instead of theirs on Monday because there was possibly a minor explosion. If you're coming.”

“Of course I'm coming. It's never going to get any better if I avoid them or they avoid me.”

“Take it up with them, not me. I said you would, but they seemed kind of nervous about it.”

Enjolras frowns, because he thinks he's going to have to address it, even if he's been trying to avoid doing it all week. He'll have to think, before Monday night, what he can say to alleviate as much of the strangeness as he can. “I'll figure it out.”

“Let them apologize, Enjolras, for God's sake.” Grantaire turns them down a side street before Enjolras can muster a response to that, and by the time Enjolras catches up to the sudden turn, he's on to a different subject, an explanation of some conversation he and Musichetta had about teaching pedagogy and federal regulations.

The conversation lasts them all the way to the store, which is indeed so small it's hard to turn around in but full of interesting things. Grantaire stocks up on what must be more than fifty dollars worth of sweets, and Enjolras buys a few boxes for himself on Grantaire's recommendation. They linger in the shop, where it's warm and smells like chocolate, until the woman at the counter starts glaring, and then Grantaire drags them outside and onto the street again.

“I don't want to go home yet,” Enjolras says when he's readjusted to the cold, tugging his hat down further over his ears.

“Elementary school playground is close, we can break in and see if the swingset is swingable despite the snowbanks,” Grantaire offers, and adjusts their course toward the main road, since that's the fastest way to the elementary school.

The sidewalk hasn't been shoveled out even though it's been snowing since before Enjolras woke up, since it's a Saturday and not many people are out. It's slippery enough that Enjolras has to watch his footing, and the walk to the school is quiet, until they're leaning on the fence, neither of them climbing over it yet even though the swings and the monkey bars both look usable.

“Okay,” Grantaire finally says, like a decision.

“Okay?”

“You need to either tell me this is a date, or you need to tell me it isn't, in which case we've crossed a line.”

“Why would we ...” Enjolras swallows. “Why would we have crossed a line?”

“Because I'm feeling like it's a date, and I guess that's the line.” He turns to face Enjolras, and Enjolras does too, wishing they'd done this before they both got shopping bags at the store. He wants his hands free. “And don't ask me if I want it to be one, because we know the answer to that. So. What do you want?”

Enjolras kisses him. It isn't an answer, not really, but it's a yes anyway. He drops his bag and frames Grantaire's face with his hands, holding on, longer than they kissed on Monday, until Grantaire can be sure he means it. “You,” he says when Grantaire pulls away, a cliché answer but a true one.

For a minute, he thinks Grantaire is going to ask him if this is just because Enjolras couldn't talk to his friends this week. It's a fair question, and Enjolras knows he'll answer it later, so Grantaire doesn't think it, and so he can explain that it's a factor, but not the only one, that if he'd ever stopped and thought this would have happened, fight with his friends or not. That he may not love Grantaire like Grantaire loves him but that he _could_. “Okay,” Grantaire says instead. He's wide-eyed, and still standing close, and Enjolras kisses him again.

“So this is a date,” Enjolras says when he's too cold to stay still much longer. “We've been to a shop and we've gone to the playground, but the swings are probably snowy and I haven't had snowpants since I was six. You're the one who knows where everything is. What do we do next, on a date?”

“Normally I would say that we should go have coffee, but normally I don't have German pastry slowly freezing solid in my bag. So maybe we should go back to your place—or my place, we're about equidistant from both of them. And that's not a come-on, I just want to kiss you at some point when we aren't wrapped in layers of coats and gloves. Okay?”

“Maybe yours, since you're apparently pickier about the consistency of your pastry.” Enjolras waits until Grantaire nods and then moves away from the fence to start walking before he falls into step with him, making sure to pick up his bag and carry it on the side farther from Grantaire.

They're only halfway to their first turn before Grantaire reaches out and tentatively takes Enjolras's hand. “The sidewalk is slippery,” he says, like he's still in need of an excuse. “I wouldn't want you to fall down.”

Enjolras squeezes. “Of course not.”

It should feel strange, walking along hand in hand with Grantaire of all people, but it only takes a few yards for Grantaire to bring up Enjolras's next lecture in Lamarque's class and offer to preemptively critique his arguments, and from there, it feels completely natural to swing their hands between them and sigh and start an argument over the effectiveness of seditious literature in revolution.

Whenever he looks over at Grantaire's face for the rest of the walk, he's beaming.

*

Monday night, Enjolras stands outside Feuilly's building longer than he wants to admit, fiddling with the pack of cigarettes in his pocket and wondering if he should smoke one before he goes inside. There's a little bit of a thaw in the air, enough that going in doesn't seem urgent. Things shouldn't be too strange. He spent most of Sunday making the rounds between his friends' houses and trying to make things right and let them do the same, but it's still intimidating, thinking of walking in and seeing all of them at once.

“Normally you have to knock to be let in,” Grantaire says behind him, and Enjolras jumps, turning around to find him in the middle of taking off his hat and sliding it into his pocket, mouth smiling but eyes worried. “Everything okay?”

“Everything's fine, Grantaire.” And then, belated, stepping over to him and not sure if he should reach out for a kiss, “Hi.”

“Hello.” Grantaire is the one to kiss him, a brief touch before he pulls away to check that it's okay. Enjolras makes sure he's smiling. “If everything's fine, why aren't you inside?”

“I was waiting for you.” It's mostly a lie, but not all, and Grantaire seems to guess that, because his smile gets a little more real, and that's what gives Enjolras the courage to take his hand and use his other one to knock on the door, immediately hearing the sound of someone shouting that they'll get it from upstairs. “Let's go in,” he says, and holds tight to Grantaire's hand.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic of] Keep It Kind, Keep It Good, Keep It Right](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10929792) by [knight_tracer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/knight_tracer/pseuds/knight_tracer)




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